


On Clearness

by paradiamond



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: I don’t remember the episode numbers, M/M, Robert POV, post Mended, the drunk texting your ex of the 1700s, townhull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-14 10:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16911468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: Robert drinks rum with Rivington and writes a letter. Both are terrible ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This immediately follows the line in season 1 where Rivington invites Robert to drink rum with him and Robert does. I also assert that no one can prove to me that it didn't happen exactly like this, we'll just never know I guess!

Rum is absolutely disgusting. Robert prides himself on being able to keep a straight face, to stay hidden in all things if chooses, but the rum is so vile he cracks immediately, nearly choking and drawing a delighted laugh from his business partner.

“Well no one drinks it because it tastes good, I suppose!” Rivington laughs as he leans forward, into Robert’s space, and Robert only just resists the urge to pull away. 

Perhaps they drink it for the nausea then, he thinks but doesn’t say. Still, Robert forces a smile and resolutely does not look around the room. The last thing he needs is for the high brass of his Majesty’s best to see him flinch now. 

“An acquired taste, I expect.” 

“Quite so, and I have spent some dedicated hours acquiring it!” 

Robert smiles back, thinly. “I'm impressed.”

He isn’t. The drink is so clear that the cup might as well be empty, a deceptive honesty. Robert hates it. 

The hair on the back of his neck stands up just before a hand lands on his shoulder, identifiable as his father before Robert even glances up. Rivegenton’s smile widens. 

“Come to stop your son?” 

“Not at all,” his father answers, smoothly. “I merely came to inquire about your health, sir. It has been too long since we last caught up.” 

He sits down in the free chair, and in doing so, takes the spotlight off Robert by putting it onto the one thing Rivington can’t resist. Robert shoots his father a brief, grateful glance, before looking back down at his cup. Disgusting. He finishes it, and is still working on keeping his face straight when Rivington refills his cup. 

“Another?” he asks, even though it's already done. 

Robert inclines his head, intentionally not meeting his father’s eye. What was it that Andre said? Two drinks for functions in which one wishes to appear social but not drunk. Of course, in the same breath he also said that he was not feeling particularly social, and that Robert should keep them coming. What he wouldn't give to be drinking coffee with him rather than rum with his business partner and father. But Andre had yet to return from his latest mission of mystery, and Robert had decided to prove a point. 

Robert sits still and drinks rum with Rivington, not an excessive amount by the standards he's used to keeping an eye out for in his patrons, but he has more than two. Of course, for a man with no tolerance it's still more than enough to get him drunk, a fact he does not realize until he tries to stand. He closes his eyes at once to stop the dizziness. Stupid, sloppy. 

In a gesture Robert will later be grateful for, his father is there to mitigate the damage. It burns him, the reliance, but it is surely better than the alternative. How long would he have sat there rather than risk letting anyone see him sway? It's not even the worst part. 

“I cannot believe you would suggest I forgive and forget,” Robert says imperiously, careful to enunciate every syllable in case his father thinks he's lost control of himself. 

Said father casts him a side eyed glance as they ascend the stairs together, Robert ostensibly ‘helping’ his aged parent. “Perhaps we should wait to discuss this until we are behind closed doors.”

Robert leans back, affronted and also momentarily forgetting that they’re on the stairs. He wobbles, but his father catches him, pulling him up straight. “Careful.”

“Did you see me fall?” Robert asks, shaking his head. “I'm always careful.” 

“I did not,” his father responds, in a tone Robert both recognizes and resents. He is not a child. 

A patron appears on the upper landing, looking briefly intrigued to see them there before tipping his hat and heading past them. His father nods, smiling politely. Robert stays very still, and from that point remains silent until they reach his room and the door closes behind them. 

His father leans back against it, watching him with open speculation. It's uncomfortable, embarrassing. It takes Robert back to much earlier days, when he'd be brought home from school for fighting with the bigger boys. Trying and failing, that is, and not behaving like the good example of his faith that he was raised to be. He had learned since then, of course, but apparently not enough. 

Robert picks his way across the room very carefully, setting himself down in his desk chair with as much dignity as he can manage. The sun is going down between them, visible through the closed window. They regard each other in silence for several tense seconds, the memory of another strained evening creeping back up. Having to undress and sleep in the trundle bed next to his father after ejecting Woodhull from his room had previously been their most awkward moment. Until now. 

“You don't have another prayer for me?” his father asks, eyebrows raised. “And here I took you for a dramatic sort of drunk.” 

Robert jerks his chin up, offense verging on hurt and burning him from the inside out. “I'm not a drunk.” 

“No, you're upset.” 

Robert makes a face. He wants to scoff, to deny everything. But to add lying on top of everything else might be too much. 

“I hate him.” He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Them.”

“No, you don't. That's the problem.” 

Robert presses his lips together, hard, trying to drive out the ringing in his ears. He doesn't want to think about this, much less talk about it. 

His father crosses the room and sits down across from Robert on the corner of his bed, folding his hands one over the other on his cane. Robert frowns, feeling as though he’s underwater, perceiving every movement a little delayed. Out of step. Some aspects stand out clearly, taking more of his attention than is warranted. The bed is neat, sharply pressed and tucked in at the sides and corners. It is correct, and Robert feels terribly disheveled sitting across from it. He looks up and sees his father still watching him. 

“I...apologize.” 

His expression softens. “It’s alright.” 

“Isn’t everything?” Robert asks, feeling the exhaustion along his spine. “Why can’t some things just be wrong?” 

“Forgiveness is divine.” 

Robert narrows his eyes. “Yes, yet we are only human.” 

“Robert-” 

“It's his fault I'm like this.”

“Abraham hardly made you drink,” his father admonishes. 

“He made me a spy,” Robert throws back, as though his father was the man himself, and probably too loudly. “Perhaps he's to blame for this as well. I can hardly keep track of his duplicity anymore.”

But his father only looks confused, which makes the prospect seem marginally less likely. They lapse back into uncomfortable silence, during which Robert picks at a loose thread on his suit and stews. His father stares at him, uncharastically silent. Woodhull sits between them, letting Robert tie himself in knots. 

After a long moment, his father clears his throat. “When your mother and I would fight-”

Robert’s head snaps up so quickly he feels pain, but he ignores it in favor of his outrage. “Father!” 

He scoffs and taps his cane on the floor. “Really, Robert-”

“No, do not-” Robert has to stop, collect himself. His head hurts, and he's dizzy even though he's sitting down. “Just because…”

“Something is known doesn't mean it needs to be said?” his father asks, clearly exasperated. 

Robert presses his lips together and nods, feeling the heat in his face like a brand, like flames under his skin. 

His father sighs, rubbing a hand over his face for a moment before dropping it. “Alright. What I was essentially going to point out was this; you cannot fight with someone without actually fighting with them. Perhaps you should visit, clear the air a bit, hm?” 

For a moment Robert is confused, because he was just there, just saw him. It had been a mess of chaos and fear, Robert had only come to deliver a message, and Abraham had been in the middle of the disaster that was Major Simcoe. They barely spoke, Robert still too angry and Abraham too busy, too divided between all his different schemes. It doesn't mean that Robert doesn't regret the brevity of it now, the lack of opportunity to do anything, anything at all. But of course his father wouldn't know that, and certainly shouldn't. 

“I'm not sure that would be wise,” he manages, eventually. 

“Hm. Perhaps you're right, but Abraham could come to the farm, and you could happen to be there.” 

Robert scowls. “You would have him set foot in your house? After what he-”

“They. What they did, and yes, I would.”

“Why?” 

His father looks at him in silence for a long moment before speaking. “For you.”

Silences descends like a curtain on a stage, seeming to cut Robert off from the outside world. The underwater feeling from the rum had faded somewhat, moving into a low hum in his veins. It was an insidious heat, a sin. From the bed, his father watches him, tapping his fingers on the cane. The silence seems to stretch, a pressure heading to the snapping point. 

“I'm going to bed,” his father says lightly, pushing himself up, cane in hand. “Stay here.”

Robert scoffs, privately relieved to be free of the quiet. “Where on earth would I go?”

“I'm sure I have no idea,” he responds, airily, and starts for the door. 

Hot embarrassment starts to claw its way up Robert’s throat, and he fears for a moment that he will vomit. But when he opens his mouth, something else tries to emerge. 

“Will you-” Robert snaps his mouth shut, realizing all at once how drunk he is. 

His father regards him calmly, evenly. “What is it?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Will I still be proud of you if you don't go back?” 

Robert’s gaze drop to the floor. He needs to sweep. There's hair under the chair, dust in the corner. He should clean. He should ride back to Setauket and punch Woodhull in the face. He should pray, and go to a meeting, and go to a clearness committee. He wants done with it. He wants to admit to as much as he can and let them decide. 

His father’s hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Whatever you decide to do, I trust that you’ll allow yourself to be guided by the light. So yes, I'll still be proud.” 

Looking up is impossible, so Robert only nods. His father makes a soft noise and turns away, thankfully finished. Appreciation wars with resentment, his face feels hot, he's tired. The door closes with a gentle click, and Robert sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Bright spots appear, and take longer to fade than they normally would. He’s never drinking again. He never should have started. Sinning is like that, apparently. Once he had started, it became so hard to stop. 

With a low groan, Robert hauls himself up and over to the bed, dropping down to pull his shoes off and then immediately collapsing onto his back, defeated. Everything is too much, too far. He would pray if he weren’t so ahamed, could tend the fire if he weren’t so tired. He would go back to Setauket and shake Woodhull by the shoulders until his ridiculous hat fell off his head if it wasn’t a ridiculously awful idea. Besides, his father told him to stay. 

Robert sits up, immediately sending himself into a furious wave of nausea and dizziness. But through the unpleasantness, a single minded focus reasserts itself. He can’t be that drunk, he reasons, if he can focus. His gaze lands on the desk, pens, paper, string. With a great surge of effort, Robert hauls himself up and back into his chair. 

There are many things he can’t do at the moment, but he doesn’t need to go anywhere to yell at Abraham Woodhull. 

***

Robert had, in fact, been that drunk. 

The morning sun stings his eyes, but he stays still, thinking it part of his punishment as he stares accusingly over at his desk. He supposes he’s lucky not to have a pounding head on top of it all. How many times had he seen men insist they were perfectly fine when they were clearly barely able to stand? He had knocked over his chair when he stood up last night, and had not fixed it. 

That alone should have told him that he was far too drunk to be writing letters, let alone posting them. 

Robert glares over at the chair like it had personally offended him, all the better to avoid getting up and looking through the multiple drafts he can see scattered across his desk. The damnable drink doesn't even have to grace to take the memory, just the details, leaving only a vague sense of guilty regret.

Loath as he is to turn look in the direction of the sun, Robert makes himself check the time to see the degree to which he has to rush. Oddly, it seems that he had woken up well before need, giving him plenty of time to revel in his recent mistakes. He sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, immediately noticing that he had gotten partially undressed and then apparently quit. 

“Good lord.” He drags his hand over his face, feeling more ridiculous than he ever had in his life. For a moment, he just stays still, revelling in his own failures. It gets old quickly, however, and he pushes himself into action, stripping off the remnants of yesterday’s clothes and making himself presentable again in quick, efficient movements, before sitting down at the desk. 

A sense of not quite deja-vu plagues him as he picks up the closest of the drafts, though he knows it’s just his own mangled memory. A sinking feeling rises up in his gut as he skims the first letter, the stones stacking up one by one. There are several drafts, each one worse than the last. 

Each is addressed differently, some with every possible combination of ‘Abraham Woodhull’ and others with more creative monikers. ‘To my long island partner in treachery’ stands out as a particularly damning one, though ‘To the dearest and worst friend of my heart’ reigns supreme as the most mortifying. One had been addressed, and then scratched out so thoroughly that he can’t make it out. Worse, he searches his mind and doesn’t remember exactly what he had settled on for the final copy. Wonderful. 

Robert reads what appears to be the last draft with growing dread. It contains, among other things, ripping accusations that have already been said, a melancholic tone, and, perhaps worst of all, abysmal penmanship. 

It also begins with, _To my obedient servant_.

Robert rolls his eyes, irritated with his own supposed cleverness. He glances down to the bottom of the page and notices with growing distaste that he had signed it in with what he probably thought at the time was another clever play on the traditional words but really came out ridiculous and too vulnerable. _I have the honor to be your Disobedient, R.T._

The tone of the entire letter is more of the same, superficial wit that is pervaded through with barely controlled feeling. 

_Perhaps I should thank you for showing me that treachery lies not on either side of a game board, but within the hearts of all men, but I will not. I will not thank you for a single moment. I caution you instead to look with a critical eye upon your heart, for you have nearly stopped mine. I regret the hours I wasted on you and your schemes-_

The next words are so mangled Robert stops trying to make sense of them, and hopes that Abraham does the same. The rest is no better, and can possibly be considered worse in places.

I was right to think you a boy playing a man, but now I see you are also a unfeeling man masquerading as a compassionate one. If you shall win against that monster running your town I shouldn't like to say, but considering what I know you to be I doubt your methods will be more honorable than his own. You blind yourself to others, and I shudder to think what your brother would think and feel if he saw you today. 

The sinking feeling in his stomach widens into a gaping hole. He has a vicious streak in him as much as Woodhull has a reckless one, and the last time he brought up that particular subject it had shaken Woodhull’s own cruelty to the surface. 

**I used to be just like you, and it sickens me now.**

He deserved it then and deserves whatever is coming to him now. Robert rubs a hand over his eyes. That is, of course, assuming any of this made it into the version of the letter that eventually reaches Woodhull. But for all the scattered and nonsensical information spread out in front of him, truly he knows nothing. He doesn't know what made it into his final draft, and has no idea what Woodhull will receive. 

Briefly, he considers trying to get the letter back, but it's a ridiculous notion at best and dangerous at worst. The last thing he needs is to draw attention to their relationship in that way, even is he is out of the ring for good. Even if he never sees or hears from Woodhull again. 

The sun is starting to climb, and he should get up, put himself together properly to attend to his business. Instead, Robert drums his fingers on the desk, anxiety chewing at him from the inside out. The temptation to simply get back in bed is strong, and he knows that Rivington will likely cover for him, gleeful in his false kindness as he gathers up more details to mock him with. Not to mention his father. 

He sets the letter down with a sigh and notices one more punishment. At the bottom of the page, under his foolish salutation, he had added a final damning sentence. 

_You still owe me a game._

Robert stays at his desk for a long time. 

***

The door to the coffeehouse opens, and his heart jumps to his throat, both eager and afraid to turn around. Every patron might be him, every blur at the corner of his eye, every figure he sees on the dark street from his window at night. 

Robert turns, just enough to see the door with his peripheral vision. It isn't him. 

It had been weeks, and he's still expecting Woodhull to walk through the door, clutching the letter and demanding to speak to him about it. The jab about his brother was too much, too far, and that’s assuming what made it into the final draft wasn’t even worse. The imaginings spin out of control, turning from worries into fantasies when he's not careful. 

When Woodhull walks in, or finds him in the alley, or appears in his room, Robert will strike him just like he did the ruffian, or perhaps turn him away, then pull him back and kiss him, aggressively, pressing him back against the walls in the dark. It would be nighttime. Woodhull is a dramatic man. 

But the days drag by and Woodhull never comes. Robert increasingly worries that his imagination might be spiraling out of control. He thinks of him in that town, with the crazed ranger screaming in the streets, and wonders if he might be dead. It's one thing to talk about going up against a monster and quite another thing to do it. It feels somehow worse than it did when Abraham was in prison, though it’s a selfish thought. At least then he had been close. Robert knew where he was, and more importantly, that he was alive. He feels so far away now. 

He obsesses over his own words when he lies down in bed, falling into confused and often erotic dreams that chase him back to wakefulness, panting into his pillow and trying not to rut against his bedding. Robert doesn't like to take himself in hand, and certainly not due to thoughts of Woodhull gripping the back of his neck, kneeling in front of him, backing him up against a wall. Still, it is either that, or burn quietly, flat on his back and panting like an animal. He has indignity to look forward to no matter what he chooses. 

But he does not drink again. 

Rivington offers, it seems to be his new delight to be turned down, but Robert never accepts. Some of the regular patrons send him amused smirks as he pours now, which is punishment enough. 

“Oh, come now Robbie,” Rivington calls from a few tables over. “We had fun didn't we?” 

Robert only sends him a strained smile and walks away, back to the refuge of his bar, as tucked away as he can get from the rest of the establishment. There is no John Andre for him to banter with, not anymore. They received word of his execution sooner than most due to the clientele, spreading like a wave through the room and finally reaching Robert. Hanged as a spy. 

He takes a controlled breath and focuses on the glasses that need to be cleaned, the bills that need to be tallied. The shop boy appears at the side of the bar, barely tall enough to peer over the wood. Robert doesn't spare him a glance, busy with his work and determined to teach him proper respect even if Rivington occasionally spoils him with breaks and small favors. It won't help him in the long run. 

“A letter for you Mr. Townsend.” 

At that, Robert holds his hand out and the letter slides into it. Plain but not cheap paper, the envelope thin. He flips it around absently, and at once recognizes the handwriting. He takes a breath and flips it back over to the blank side. “Thank you.” 

It is a rather anticlimactic appearance, all things considered. Robert doesn't even feel the need to rip it open at the bar, but he finds that he does want to take it up to his room to read. Still he waits, reasonably sure that whatever it contains will only enrage him. Woodhull can wait, just like he did.

Finally, after drink orders and raunchy officers and loose women pretending not to be, Robert gets the time, and takes himself upstairs, the letter all but burning him through his worn suit jacket. He sets himself down in his chair, door carefully closed and his jacket hung on the rack, and draws the blade along the edge with a critical eye. 

The letter itself is rather short, only a single page where some of Robert’s had been double sided and bleeding onto the next, scraps of thoughts cluttered along the bottom. The handwriting is steady. 

**Dear Robert,**

Robert blinks, and thinks back on his own messy drafts, paring up their chaos with what Woodhull might have written in his place. Dear Townsend, To Robert Townsend, My...what? He takes in a careful breath and reminds himself that Woodhull was likely sober when he wrote this, and less likely to need so many choices. Still, he wonders more than he reads for the first long moments he sits at his desk. 

The tone is surprisingly mature. It also contains, among other things, a brief description of how they got rid of Simcoe, and a significantly longer explanation about his brother. 

_I owe you_

Robert looks away, out the open window, and let's his mind stay blank for a while longer before looking back down. 

I owe you much, but what I can give is an explanation. 

The story itself is brief, more a list of events than a tale. The writing here is not messy, but firm, like he had pushed too hard, squeezed the quill too tight. It must have been gutting to put to paper. Robert reevaluates his previous judgement that he had not in fact included the jab about Thomas in the final letter he had sent, but it's difficult to imagine Woodhull responding in this way, with more grace than Robert deserves. 

The rest of the letter is jarringly different, more open, more personal. It shows in his handwriting, the repressed and disconnected scratch giving way to a more connected, and disorganized, script.

You have been a friend to my mind most of all, of all things we have shared. I cannot bring myself to regret our acquaintance. 

There’s nothing in it about spies or soldiers, except for the easily discernible. I understand your choice, even though it is not my own. One line. The rest is all for Robert. 

On the positive side, there is the same undercurrent of respect that Robert had heard when Woodhull talked about him to Brewster. ‘This man had every reason to quit’ he said. It had surprised him then and it flatters him now. Woodhull held him up as an example, had taken that example to heart and stayed to fight against the man who struck fear in Robert’s heart, and survived even if he didn't win. 

It makes him wonder what else he thinks of him. When Abraham looks right through him, what does he see at the center? He doesn't say exactly, and he does not apologize for his behavior.

Ultimately though, it is unsatisfying. So much seems missing Robert can hardly stand it. He wants to run the paper over with the invisible ink solution, but Woodhull would have known that he didn’t have any of the resolving agent. It is what it is, and it’s all he has. 

At the very bottom, right where Robert knew it would be, is a final message, slanted and written hurriedly. _two games, or I concede ._

Robert sets the letter down. It bothers him more than it should, partly because it’s too close to Woodhull getting the last word. But there’s also the air of finality to it. He wrote about the past, as though that was the end of it, all they had. 

It should be good. Robert is out of the ring he never wanted to be a part of in the first place, and so his business with Woodhull is finished as well. There is no reason to ever see or hear from each other again. 

It’s only a few days later that Robert puts out an advertisement for French raspberry brandy.


	2. Chapter 2

Robert keeps his back to the ships, eyes fixed on the window display in front of him. If the clouds happen to move while he’s standing there, giving him a perfect view of the scene behind, well, that would not be his fault. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a list of supplies for the business. Drinks, food, a few decorative items at the behest of his partner. He puts it away, glancing back up to the window as he turns. Twelve ships. 

Down the street, into a shop he actually patronizes on a semi-regular basis to pay his outstanding bill, then back out. Another regiment passes by. The fourth. Cross the street, back down to the water. Five more ships. He adds them to his mental list. 

Troop numbers, ship numbers. His father would be in the city soon, and since he’d signaled without any real information for the first time, and most certainly the last, he had been obliged to seek it out. His original impulse to simply inform them that Benedict Arnold was in the city would not be enough. Everyone already knew. Robert should have known that from the moment he walked in. But he was impulsive, and angry, and now he’s paying the price. 

Another regiment, this one bigger. One man catches his eye and smirks. Robert drops his gaze to the street, playing the spineless Quaker, a bit of odd local color. He moves on. 

The work is mind numbing, and mind clearing. 

When his father arrives a few days later, beaming like Robert had single handedly won the war himself, Robert demurs. But his father was never one to be put off. They have to have a conversation, which they do, and it’s painful, but nothing close to what he knows is coming. Neither of them mention the obvious when Robert follows him down the stairs and out the door the next day, sticking to his shadow like the child he no longer is. 

Robert lives by order, and it’s easy to make the excuse of some property dispute so boring that no one asks about it. Really, he could get away with murder if he chose, so long as he talked about it in dull terms and kept his head down, turning the conversation back around to the participant surely just waiting for their turn to speak. Not to mention it’s getting close to the Christmas season, so everyone is distracted, especially Rivington, who seems to take the Christmas spirit, already an offensive concept, to new heights of poor taste. 

Robert had already agreed to work the holiday itself, since it made no difference to him. The bar would be open for the poor souls with no one else to spend the time, with Robert as their server and judge. Though if he has to hear the phrase ‘corner the market’ from his partner one more time, he will leave for good. 

The trip is uneventful, and the farm is the same, it’s only Robert who feels different. He’s out of step with his own life, always a little bit behind. The burnt out barn still looks pathetic in the daylight, a husk of blackened spines. He avoids it, and the ruin of the apple orchard, keeping to the house.

If his father notices anything, which he surely does, he doesn’t comment. 

***

Robert feels ridiculous all through the night, and even more so at breakfast the next morning. After tea, about half past noon, the knock on the door might as well have been a blow to the chest for all that it rocks him to the core. Robert keeps his place as his father walks slowly to answer it, glancing at Robert meaningfully as he passes. Plenty of opportunity to escape, which Robert silently declines, steepling his fingers together. 

As soon as the door opens, Abraham is inside and talking, nearly tripping over himself as he apologizes, explains himself, growing both louder and faster as Samuel leads him further into the house.

“Mr. Townsend, I really am so-” He stops dead as soon as he sees Robert, who pointedly does not stand. 

Samuel, who is really too pleased to stay irritated, slips off towards the kitchen, and Abraham does not seem to notice. He fidgets, his hands twisting around that ridiculous hat. “Robert.”

“Mr. Woodhull,” Robert answers cooly. 

He winces. “I uh, I think Abraham would probably be fine, at this point.”

“If you insist.”

“I don’t, it’s just a suggestion.”

Robert only barely holds back a snort. “That doesn’t sound like you.” 

“Not the old me, maybe.” 

This time Robert doesn’t try to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Is that so? What is it, then? You don’t deal in absolutes anymore?” It’s much easier to talk to him that Robert expected, possibly because he’s still so incredibly frustrating. 

“Oh absolutely,” Abraham says, grinning. Then he drops it, a more serious expression taking its place. “You didn’t bring me here for this.”

“No.”

“Do you actually have anything to pass on?” Abraham’s eyes rove over him like a physical touch. Robert suppresses a shiver. 

“Of course. I wouldn’t signal without cause,” Robert says, but doesn’t take out the note. 

Abraham nods. “That’s good to hear. Anything urgent?”

Heat starts to creep up Robert’s spine, encroaching on his neck. “No.”

He doesn’t elaborate, knowing that if he does, Abraham will know. He’ll be able to see it all as if he’d been there himself. Seeking the information out rather than letting it come to him.   
Participating. An active agent. He’d been Abraham’s eyes and ears, then he had made himself his feet and hands as well. Soon there will be nothing left, nothing of him at all that doesn’t belong to Abraham. 

He stands, tugging at the bottom of his shirt out of habit to straighten it out, and sees Abraham’s lips quirk. “Come with me.”

Abraham walks close as Robert brings them outside, the need for open space making itself well known. “How soon do you need to be back?”

“I have time,” Abraham answers, which Robert suspects is at least partly a lie. “The rangers have left, and I reached an understanding with my father, so he’ll cover for me.”

That surprises him. Maybe he really does have the time, or is willing to carve it out for Robert. 

“Good. Benedict Arnold is in York city.”

Abraham nods, serious again. “I heard he defected.” Every word is careful, measured. For all that Abraham bothers him, Robert finds he doesn’t like be treated like something other than himself. 

“Yes, it is the talk of the town,” Robert says, just as carefully, throwing his ridiculous small talk back in his face. 

Abraham frowns and pointedly looks around. They’re just out of sight of the house, away from the barn and blunted tree stumps. “Why am I here?”

“To pick up the information. If it isn't good enough for you-”

“Alright,” Abraham cuts in. “Why are you here?”

It’s the right question. Robert stops at random, looking up a particularly large tree. He might have climbed it as a child, but he can't remember. The details of memories tend to fade while the impressions remain, the broad strokes. What, he wonders, will be the broad strokes from this time?

“I felt you had more to say that couldn't be put in a letter.”

Abraham makes a harsh sound in his throat. Like a laugh, but more bitter. “I think we both have a lot to say. Some things are better left unsaid.”

Robert frowns, turning back to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Abraham stares at him in silence for a long moment, the wind in the trees the only sound before he speaks again. “What game is this?”

“No games.”

“Then what?”

Robert frowns. “Whatever is left.”

Abraham looks away. “You’re...honest today.”

That makes Robert scoffs “I’m always honest.” 

“Yeah? Do you always use it like this? Like a weapon?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Abraham shrugs. “Sometimes people get cut by their own knives, that’s all I’m saying.” 

“I’m confident that I can take it.”

“I’m not.” Abraham looks away, up towards the trees. “You ever climb these?”

Robert watches him, the profile of his face, all pointed and sharp lines. “Yes.”

“I used to climb.”

“If you suggest we climb a tree I’ll-”

“No, I wasn’t going to.” He sticks his hand on his hip, then lets it drop. Nervous. “It’s just, I think that the reason we only do it when we’re kids, the thing that makes you good at it is a certain kind of faith that happens before you’ve fallen. After that you can’t do it the same way.”

“Is this metaphor reaching an end anytime soon?”

Abraham turns back and grins, all childish spite. “Why, you need it explained?”

“No. It’s just an elegant way to explain cowardice.”

There’s a sudden brittleness in Abraham's eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the other side of caution. I could have accused you of being a coward.”

“You likely still could, if you were so inclined.”

“I’m not.”

“Why? Because I placed an advertisement?”

“Because you wrote me.”

It’s Robert’s turn to look away, off towards the house. He can’t see it anymore, but it’s there. 

“In the interest of honesty, and the hope of inspiring some in return, I should tell you that I was...drunk when I wrote that.”

He expects to hear Abraham laugh, or say he could tell. But there’s only silence. He looks over and sees Abraham frowning at him, real concern etched into his face. 

“What-” Abraham cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you want from me.” 

“You owe me truth. I deserve,” Robert gropes for the right word, feeling as though he’s stumbling through the dark. “Clarity.” 

Abraham cocks his head, sharp mind clearly catching on to the preciseness of the phrase. They start walking again, without talking about it and exactly at the same time. Robert watches for birds. “Friends- Quakers, I mean.”

“I know,” Abraham says, holding a stray branch out of the way as they pass. 

“We have a system for judgement, by our peers. Clearness committees. When we have something in our lives, a major decision, or a sin, anything that requires thought, we bring it to the group.” 

Abraham hums. “Well, I guess this would be something you can't bring to them.”

“No.”

“But you can bring it to me.”

Robert looks at him askance, but he’s not looking back. “You first.”

They walk further than Robert can ever remember going as a boy, and for a moment he worries about finding their way back. But the water is to their flank, and worse comes to worst they’ll have the sky when it grows dark. No one ever died in Robert’s family’s woods, though he supposes if anyone could do it, it would be Abraham, who is quiet for a long time before he speaks. 

“I wish...I think I just wish betraying you was the worst thing I’d ever done.”

Robert blinks, unsure of how to start. He settles for the obvious. “Why?” 

Abraham lets out a long breath. “Maybe because then I could properly feel it. But if I truly regret what I did to you then how can I live with myself when I’ve done worse before?”

Robert turns this around and around in his mind, sorting pieces, making a cohesive narrative out of taunts and admissions in letters. “You didn’t kill you brother, Abraham.” 

Abraham jerks back. “That’s- I- no, Robert. The soldier quartered in my house. He overheard Mary confront me about the ring. She had just found out, and she was furious, it wasn’t real to her yet, she couldn’t see it. Baker came in.”

“And you killed him.”

“Yes.”

“How?” Robert asks, fully aware of his cruelty, and his curiosity. This is not survivor's guilt but true moral anguish, the torture put to a soul that has extinguished another. 

Abraham looks like he might break in half, but he doesn’t. “I shot him.”

Robert nods, the picture forming in his mind. “And then burned down your house.”

“That was Mary, actually.”

“Practical.”

“Exactly. You’d like her.” 

Robert gives him a dry look and keeps walking, swinging them around a tree to head back, or at least in that direction. “In any case.” 

Abraham laughs softly, and then drops it, growing serious again. “I wanted to make it real for you, like they tried to make it real for me.”

“I’m not sure which part of that sentence I should address first.”

Abraham smiles, looking tired. “Whatever you want.”

Robert stops walking, and Abraham does as well, immediately and without changing the distance between them. He frowns at him. “Tried?”

Abraham nods. “It- I thought it worked. They captured me while I was on the London trade,” he says, ignoring the way Robert’s eyebrows shoot up. “My childhood friends were there, and they held me in a cell for days. Still, they let me go. I felt the injustice of it, and it helped that Simcoe was around to make it all the more dramatic.”

“He is rather cartoonish,” Robert drawls, but can’t suppress a shiver at the memory of the man in the street, wetting himself as Simcoe screamed. 

“It’s different when you face him directly.” Abe shrugs. “He makes himself that way, but underneath there’s a real…”

“Devil.”

“Or a man.” He shakes his head, as if to clear it, and Robert wonders what else lies there, if Abraham will ever tell him. “Anyway, it didn’t really become real to me until later, when Hewlett pulled up our gravestones for his cannons. They were ours, part of us.” 

“So you thought you’d take something of mine.” 

Abraham makes a face, torn with himself. “It did work. We take the land personally.” 

Robert glares. “It didn’t work. The thing that worked was my father getting hurt, the part you didn’t plan.” 

“Is that why we took the long way around the apple orchard?” Abraham throws back, sharpness in his tone. “Because you don’t care?” 

Robert remember what Brewsters face felt like under his fist. He remembers lashing out at the boys in the school yard. He curls his hand into a fist, then lets it go, just as he sees Abraham’s arms come up and towards him. Eyes widening, he rocks back a step, shocked that Abraham would dare, after everything, but his palms land harmlessly on Robert’s shoulders, some mockery of men’s comfort. Ridiculous. 

Robert tries to shrug him off, but he holds tight, stepping in close. He can see all the marks on Abraham’s face, the freckles and care worn lines. 

“You ever had maggots?” 

Robert scoffs. “What?” 

“I had them. It was the start of all this. They’re so hard to root out because they move in right under your nose.” 

Robert looks away, uncomfortable by his sudden proximity, his breath on his face, his eyes wide and near. “Yes, I know. This is a farm. I grew up on a farm. Though, obviously, your’s is much more...personal.”

“Smaller.” Abraham smirks. 

Robert glances back, embarrassed. “I never really worked the land myself. We had a larger scale operation, even then.”

“More like overseers than workers,” Abraham says, and glances down at Robert’s hands, caught halfway up in the air between them, unsure if he wants to push him away or not. 

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to see you brought low,” he says, and his own hands tighten on Robert’s shirt. “It feels...wrong. You shouldn’t work in the dirt.”

“More metaphors?”

Abraham looks back up, meeting his eyes with a shock that runs down Robert’s spine. “I don’t ever want you have blood on your hands, alright? And you’re the only one left. Anna, Mary, Caleb, Ben, me. There’s no one else.”

Robert waits. In gathering, one learns to wait. Over a long enough period of time, if you remain open, answers come. In this case, two minutes pass and Abraham lets go, leans away. 

“I said once, that I used to be just like you.”

“I remember. Did I really sicken you?”

“No. Well, not just you. I sickened me. I still do, sometimes. I...hope you never become like I am now.” Abe blinks and looks around, very obviously changing the subject. “Why are we outside?”

It’s an odd question, especially paired with everything else. The obvious answer is so his father won’t eavesdrop. The less obvious answer is probably what Abraham is looking for. 

He could mention climbing the trees, how God is in the rain, in nature. He doesn't say anything. Abraham must see it in him, because he moves on. 

“Your turn,” Abraham says, and turns away. Toward the orchard. 

“No.”

He turns back, real hurt crossing over his face. “Robert-”

“I don’t owe you clarity. I don’t owe you anything at all.”

Abraham seems to fold in on himself, though he moves very little. “You’re right.”

Robert sends him a dark look, but walks on, in the direction he’d started. 

“You don't seem particularly concerned about swaying me back to the cause.”

Abraham actually has the gall to shrug. “It's up to you.”

“And?”

“And I think you already know what’s right. You’ve always know it.” Abraham tilts his face up, towards the sun. “Also, if it matters, I meant what I wrote.”

Robert watches him, and fishes out the note with the figures and secrets on it. The one that marks him for what he is, and holds it out for Abraham to take. “So did I.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> paradiamond.tumblr.com ~ for more of this


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